Noisome Incendiaries
by Poseidon's Daughter
Summary: Various, unrelated, oneshots. Ongoing.
1. Break

**Post Note/ Disclaimer**: One hundred, unrelated, Final Fantasy XII oneshots. Or, that's the goal anyway. It may take a while, but I am determined to write all one hundred. Requests for themes, pairings, and characters are welcome.

Don't forget to drop a line :)

Prompt: Break.

Character(s): Basch.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries : Break.**

* * *

It is not until they are in Tchita Uplands, facing a pack of coeurl, that Basch realizes the full extant of his wasted condition. It seems odd, to say the least, that he has only just noticed all but the hardiest of his calluses are gone.

But then how -and when- could he? After two years of incarceration there had been so much to carry out upon his liberation (sweet air, confront the resistance, save Penelo, save Amalia, reach the Kilitias and, now, reach Archades). He has hardly had a moments' rest, let alone time enough for self-contemplation. He had pushed, and he had persisted, and, thus, the man had been steadily gaining muscle back from the fiends and foes fought along the way, that was enough for him. It had been enough. And whence the party had taken down not one but two judges with nary a scratch to their persons, Basch had deduced that he was very nearly back on par with his former self.

So when he rolls the sword hilt across his palm, switching his grip to an angle that would better aid the upward arc he intends to unleash upon the beast adjacent him, he cannot help it when he all but drops the sword in shock from the agonizing pain this simple move –which he has performed hundreds of thousands of times- causes him.

He grits his teeth and attempts the maneuver again - praying to the gods whom have never favored him - that it is merely a fluke… only to be met with the same persistent hurt.

And it is an ugly thing to have all of the knowledge, all the reflexes, all the experience, and yet none of the capability. It is a very ugly thing.

The beast, not forgotten but hazy in the man's peripheral, takes advantage of his wandering focus and lunges. Basch shifts the sword once more against the side of his palm…and yet that revolting pain is still there. A strangled cry and he _kicks _the coeurl's ribs, sending the monster sprawling back a few paces, "Gabranth!"

Except…except that is not quite right. It was not Gabranth whom had worn his face that night, now so long ago. It was not Gabranth who kept him, like an animal, in chains. It was not Gabranth, helmless, who mocked him, even as Basch wasted and festered and damn near disintegrated before his very eyes. The very same eyes they had always shared. The shape, the size, the color- they were their mother's eyes.

"No-"

No. It was not Gabranth. It has never been Gabranth.

"_No_-" he skewers the now whimpering beast, "_ah_!"

How, how, how, _how_ could it be that after only two years of disuse his hands are as sensitive as those of a maiden? How can it be that all those years, all he has trained for, is now for naught? When he needs it most?

"_No_-" a feint to the right and then a devastating blow delivered with the blunt edge of his shield from the left, "_ah_!"

Why? How?

"_No_-" the second coeurl falls and he pivots on heel to meet the next, "_ah_!"

How does it all become as nothing? "_No-ah_!"

Every time, how?

A whirlwind of flashing steel and golden flesh, he twists and he turns and he purposely angles the sword hilt in such a way that it scrapes the piteously soft skin of his palms clean off.

_Noah._

How?

_Noah._

Why?

_Noah._

…Why?

_Noah, Noah, Noah, Noah, Noah._

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries : Break: End.**

* * *


	2. Remind

Post Note: When Vaan stole from that imperial at the very beginning of the game, Penelo was pretty darn quick to take her cut. Yeah, yeah, it was "for the bread" Vaan took. _Whatever_, Penelo. :)

Prompt: Remind.

Character(s): Main Party. (Balthier. Vaan. Penelo.)

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Remind**

* * *

Vaan is convinced that the no one gives him –and Penelo too, he guesses- nearly enough credit.

He is just the orphan kid tagging along for the ride.

The thing is, though, Vaan has been fairly okay with this fact. He has not really minded that this is how the others view him. Vaan is saving the world…that in itself makes it more than worth being viewed as the token _golly-gee-whiz, _overactive, wide-eyed kid.

Plus, ya know…Vaan usually is overactive and wide-eyed. So it's not like there was a lack of truth in the assessment. And Vaan would have kept quiet about, if not much else, his feelings on the subject. Yes, his comrades viewed him as a kid. But he was saving Ivalice, reinstating a rightful heir, avenging his brother, _flying in airships_, infiltrating holy grounds, tombs, and messed up laboratories, and what other "kid" could say _that?_

Aside from Penelo.

And maybe Larsa.

...But they don't really count. Point is, Vaan would have been quite content to work behind the scenes and aid his friends in the only real way he knew how. And how is that? Well, thanks to some rather snippy attitudes, the entire party was about to find out.

And it wasn't even Ashe, whose temper was downright venomous of late, who had impelled him to such an extreme measure. Balthier really ought to have known better than to attempt to bark orders at a pair of wild street urchins.

"I'm just saying-"

"Vaan," Penelo hisses, for the first time noticing the stares of the, ever sharp eared, wretches of Old Archades, "keep your voice down!"

He ignores her, "-that he has NO right to boss us around like that! He's the one who tried to steal from _me_,_ I _don't have to listen to him, _I_ didn't get you kidnapped, and unless we're on the _Strahl_, which we're **not**,_ I-_"

"_I_ think you are being ridiculous. He has a lot on his mind right now, I'm sure Balthi-"

"Penelo, please, that doesn't even-"

"Yes, it does, you're just too thickheaded-"

"If you really want to get on the subject of thickhea-"

"And it was _hours_ ago, anyway, why are you getting so angry now-?"

"Because he-them! All of them- don't seem to realize just how much we actually do for-"

* * *

The squabbling voices of the teens faded as the pair fell even further behind from the rest of the party. Balthier repressed the impulse to press the heels of his palms into his eye sockets and scream. It was bad enough that the group had just wandered for days on end through an underground, wyrm filled, palace in which they had only survived by the skin of their teeth. There was no need to make their first few hours of fresh (albeit Archadian) air miserable by polluting the ozone further with their screechings and incessant rambling.

After he had engaged the pair in a brief conversation (concerning the sewers, the filth, the runoff, and clarifying that, no Vaan, this is not actually the capital) Balthier had thought the dynamic duo satisfied.

As had been a fool's hope, apparently.

Balthier glanced first at Basch and Ashe, whom had taken the lead in front of him and then at his Viera partner, ever by his side, whose ears were twitching in such a way to suggest she, at least, was still listening to the younglings' conversation. The sky pirate cleared his throat, causing the princess and her guard to pause. He lifted one brightly ringed hand and pointed at a few buildings, each in various states of distress, slightly to their right, "A little past those houses there ought bring us to a stairwell into Archades proper. Naturally, it will be guarded. I advise that if we keep along this roa-"

That was when Vaan's voice, raised to an octave Balthier had no idea could be achieved by males, shattered all previous prospects of civil discussion "I don't care- I'm doing it!"

It was also when the boy, running full tilt, launched himself onto Balthier's back.

"Hgnn!" The pirate staggered to save himself from falling. His hands shot up to his neck, which is exactly what Vaan had decided to wrap his arms around, and instantly began trying to disentangle himself from the boy's death grip.

Balthier was vaguely aware of Penelo, whom had run up beside them. The girl was yelling and moving as though to place herself between Vaan and Balthier's (unwillingly) meshed bodies. This may have actually have been of some help had the girl also not kept on stumbling repeatedly and grabbing onto Balthier's various body parts, who was having a hard enough time already, to keep her own balance. And wasn't she a dancer? Shouldn't she have grace and poise, or something of the like? Ah, well.

After a few moments more, Balthier managed to grab a fistful of the boy's vest and sent him heels over head over his shoulder and onto the ground. Vaan's breath left him in a _whoosh_ as his back connected with the cobbled street. Balthier knelt next to him, breathing heavily and glowering quite impressively.

"…Hey," Vaan reached out for Balthier's forearm, gripping one of the gauntlets he wore underneath the frilled sleeves, "You know how much those cost us?"

Balthier looked at the boy, at his wrist, and then back at the boy, "Vaan." He warned.

But Vaan is nothing, if not persistent, "We picked 'em up in the Hunter's Camp, right?" the boy dug his elbows into the earth and maneuvered himself into a sitting position, "How much did they cost? You know right?"

"Of course not," he snapped, "You and Penelo were the ones doing the shopping, then."

"Uh, huh." The boy's blonde head bobbed up and down enthusiastically, "And you know what? They were more than we could afford, but we got 'em anyway."

Baltheir's eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth, ready to put an end to the seeming foolishness, but it was Penelo who spoke up.

One hand rested on a tilted hip, the other was twirling no less than three Elixirs over her knuckles and through her graceful fingers. Her smile looking far more amused than contrite, "You didn't actually think we paid for all this stuff from the gil we earned selling pelts, did you?"

(Bewildered, Balthier's hand went instantly to the item pouch at his hip. It was empty.)

They were only a pair of Lowtown orphan kids. They had no connections. No ability to sense the mist. No real previous battle experience. No royal blood. They possessed no arcane knowledge of secret lands and hidden paths… half the time Vaan couldn't even read the map.

So maybe they couldn't save the world. But with quick tongues and quicker fingers, they could keep provisions stocked for the ones who could.

And that was almost the same thing.

…assuming Balthier did not decide to shoot them in their sleep, of course.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Remind: End.**

* * *


	3. Hidden

Post Note: Reviews are love. Flames are love. Both make me smile for _days_ :)

Prompt: Hidden

Character(s): Main Party.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Hidden**

* * *

Balthier can sew.

In the beginning, it had been nothing more than a defensive tactic. The last thing he needed, at twelve years old, was some dull witted tailor letting it pass to his father that his son was rather clumsy, wasn't he? What with all that _slipping_ he seems to do. Or even worse, if said tailor saw through his lies and informed Cidolfus that the only real slipping young little Ffamran has been doing is into Old Archades to play.

Only it wasn't actually to play. It was to fight.

And, yes, yes, of _course_ the weapons master was teaching Ffamran more than just simple marksmanship. Issue being that the aristocratic idea of boxing, fair play and pulled punches, is not how monsters and people _really_ fight.

The scrapping, kicking, dirt throwing, tooth and nail scuffles he got into with Jules, though? Those are the lessons that will keep him alive in this world.

So, in order to keep himself from being discovered, he pays an old wretch of woman a few gil to teach him how to thread a needle and how to determine what stitch would hide which tear the best. She even showed him how to remove blood stains from white linen ('cept tis a tedious errand and, really boy, it would be much better if ye just wore somethin' sturdy and possibly homespun during yer little expeditions to the underbelly, eh?).

And even now, a decade later, Balthier finds that sewing is still a valuable ability and utilizes it regularly (those flying wyrms are _hell bent _on ripping the lace from his sleeves).

…When in the privacy of his cabin on board the _Strahl_, that is.

The leading man must maintain an image, mind you.

* * *

Basch can dance.

It was not a claim or a boast. It was merely a fact and one he had no intention of exploiting, at that.

No, Basch Fon Ronsenburg admits he can dance in the same way he may point out that, actually, his real strength lies in the spear not the mace. Or in the way he may mention that yes, Vaan, that last serpent was very poisonous; you had best drink this antidote and sit down for a moment least you die.

Teenaged and restless, he and Noah had picked up the Landian folk dances with varying degrees of success. Their interest was truly no deeper than to use it as a tool to better charm pretty girls but…not to be outdone by the other, their eternal sibling rivalry caused the boys to blunder and stumble until their steps were perfect.

During his first few years in Dalmasca, as an entry-level guard, he would often find himself at the Sandsea with men from his faction. On one such occasion, an offhand comment to Vossler instigated an impromptu lesson (involving the tavern maids, several graceless falls, and far, far too many bawdy jokes). Even so, amidst the laughter and torchlight, the movements stayed with him. Traditional Dalmascan dances were slower than the quick paced Landian ones… yet there was a flow and lightness to them that seemed to match the heart of the city.

So now, to keep up appearances, Basch learns the stiffly precise Archadian waltzes without shame or discomfort.

Dancing, fighting, dodging, protecting, defending, attacking, planning, aiming, walking, talking, swimming, breathing, to Basch it is just another thing he can _do_.

* * *

Ashe can spit, Ashe can swear, and Ashe can belch louder and better than anyone else in the party.

She had had eight elder brothers… a girl tended to pick these things up.

Particularly when it had been a favorite pastime of said brothers to see which one of them could most corrupt baby sister, Ashelia.

Oh, yes. Being all of four years old, little Ashe would sometimes innocently repeat inopportune phrases to devastatingly high-ranking officials…which would result in a fierce tongue lashing behind closed doors for Ashelia and the thrashing of their royal lifetime for whichever brother(s) she named.

…but that had made the stakes all the higher and the game all the better.

The princess has not demonstrated her…talents, since age nine.

Sometimes she wonders what would happen if she did.

* * *

Vaan can garden.

A feat in itself considering he lives in a desert.

It had started off as an experiment, after noticing the vegetation that grew along the sections where the Garamsythe Waterway connected with Lowtown. And one day, when he had nothing better to do with himself, he went about looking for a place to test what could actually be grown in the underground.

Searching had not taken too long, Vaan managed to find a spot that no one had yet (as far he could tell) claimed. Sure, it was out of the way, but the small nook was fairly close to the waterway and a little sunlight even trickled down from the crumbling stones above during certain hours of the day. Taking a hammer to the tiled floor, the earth beneath proved to be soft and fertile.

It was around that time that he started begging for seeds from just about every single one of his acquaintances. Vaan never actually said _why _he needed them. Just that he did. That was usually enough. Migelo even, grudgingly, gave him a handful of mixed flower bulbs.

Despite the sunlight, the flowers never really did do too well. But then, Vaan didn't actually know what he was doing. Not really. He had the most success with mosses and, predictably, weeds. Strangely enough, this did not deter him. Hey, _something_ had grown, right?

Right.

Before this adventure (and a run in with pair of rather nasty imperials), Vaan wanted to see if he could get Galbana lilies to take root in Lowtown…but he'll have to hang on a while longer to find out.

* * *

Penelo can hold her liquor.

This was not something she had planned on finding out. Rather, it had been an inescapable discovery. Pretty much anything she decides to do with Vaan is inescapable. Or not decide to do (the end results are usually about the same). So Vaan _and_ Tomaj? Please. Like she had a chance.

And the only reason she had agreed to drink in the first place was because it meant there would be _less_ of the vile stuff for those two to consume.

Alright, so her logic sounded pretty bad after really thinking about it. It had made sense _at the time_. Left to their own devices, the two probably would have staggered up to the palace gates, demanded to see the consul, and then claim to be his long lost brothers (because it's well known how _nice_ everything always is between the Solidor siblings, Penelo is so sure. Ugh. Boys). And then, once they were dragged off to Nalbina, what would Penelo do then? They were her best friends. Sadly.

How did Tomaj get his hands on a bottle of the good stuff in the first place? No, wait. She didn't want to know. Though she found out anyway. It's pretty interesting the things your friends let slip when drinking shots.

Less than two hours later, Tomaj was face down on the table and Vaan was sprawled out on the stones by her feet (_eww_… was he drooling on her boot?). Eyeing the empty bottle, Penelo dimly noted that she now had sufficient license to mock her friends for the rest of their horrid little lives.

That thought almost made Migelo's following lecture, which had had Vaan cowering and Tomaj sniffing back tears, worth it.

* * *

Fran can still hear the Green Word.

It echoes, faintly now, in the back of her mind and in her heart. The actual language has long since been lost; yet the Word breathes and sighs inside their wayward daughter. Whispering tendrils course through her veins, intermingling with the blood there. It will not last, she knows, as it has been steadily fading since her self imposed exile.

When Fran was young, to walk the path of a Wood Warder only seemed natural. To protect the Wood, the village, her sisters, all that she held most precious. It was the obvious path. It was the noble path.

Out of the three sisters, the Word had always favored Fran…even more so than Jote, whom was thought to be something of a prodigy among the (then) elders. During her time as an apprentice, the Wood opened paths for Fran and for Fran alone. Paths that led to secret places. Ancient places. Wood and Word would both chant that they had plans for their sweet child. And, in their embrace, feelings of peace washed over her like water. She knew no sorrow, no loneliness. She was happy and wanted for nothing.

Fran did not leave the Wood because she felt some fierce yearning to be free.

Fran left because she had felt compelled to stay. Fran had wanted to stay.

And that feeling frightened her more.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Hidden: End.**

* * *


	4. Define

Post Note: Reviews are love. Flames are love. :)

Prompt: Define.

Character(s): Rasler. Ashe.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Define.**

* * *

Rasler sometimes wonders after his young wife's mental state.

Oh, not in the sense of lunacy which was, admittedly, notoriously known to run in certain other royal bloodlines. Merely, he often wonders how her mind _works_. Ashe must always be working on something inside her head. She leaps, quicker than most might follow, from subject to subject. The world is simply a puzzle. A project. And Rasler does not find fault in this. If truth be told, he rather admires her for it.

"And then there is you."

Although…although, that admiration tends to be tested when the woman in question decides to voice her thought process aloud. Or, rather, out loud during the early hours of the morning (can it even yet be deemed morning?) while lying right next to him. He screws his eyes shut and presses his face deeper into the invitingly plush mattress.

"Ashe." He mutters, voice thick with sleep.

She is lying flat on her back, her face turned up towards the gilt ceiling, "Maybe I loved you all along and I just didn't know it."

Reluctantly, Rasler rolls onto his side and opens his eyes, using them to trace her profile while he pillows one arm underneath his head. And then, because he is feeling spiteful for being denied a few more hours of precious _precious _rest, he chooses to disregard caution and volunteers pettily, "Maybe that is just what the masses would have you believe."

She glances at him sharply, a slight frown appearing on her mouth, however the lady continues on as though he has not spoken. This prompts him to grin boyishly as it is an act he is now well used to, "Maybe it is because I do not know how to be in love, that is why I did not recognize the sentiment for what it is."

Now it is his turn to scowl. It was troubling thought; Rasler briefly wonders whom it is she has been speaking with – the newlyweds have been a popular topic of late among the courtiers, falsehoods and assumptions sprouting up like flowers in spring. His tone is sharper than he intends it to be as he feels himself becoming fully awake, "You are not incapable of _love_, Ashelia."

Her face flushes and her jaw sets stubbornly, "I said nothing of incapability."

The room falls to silence. Suddenly restless, he reaches across the distance to pull the blankets up higher about her form and better cover her bare shoulders. _She_ may very well be used to these cool Dalmascan desert nights… but that does not mean _he_ yet is. And seeing her in such a state makes him colder still. His knuckles brush against the soft skin of her neck and her collarbone. He allows them to linger longer than absolutely necessary, murmuring, "Perhaps it is because you have always loved and have always been loved. Therefore making it difficult to discern the romantic from the platonic."

She reaches up and catches his hand in her own, "If that is so, " she begins, "Recall when first I visited Nabradia. I pushed you into the fountain- that lovely one near the eastern edge your lady mother's private gardens- do you think this was some act of infantile affection?"

Rasler represses a rather unattractive snort when he realizes she is making no jest. So instead he keeps quiet and answers slowly, "I _think_ it was because you were seven and I had just pulled your hair."

"Yes, I suppose there was that…" she trails off, smiling ruefully, "However, that now makes your previous theory illogical."

He arches a brow and challenges, "Perhaps it is only convenience?"

Blue eyes bore into him for a full minute before his wife scoffs and turns away, her back (ever so pointedly) facing him, "Rasler, if you are not going to take the matter seriously, I see no need to continue the conversation."

Rasler blinks. Then, this time, he _does _snort, an arm snaking around her waist, "Indeed?"

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Define: End.**

* * *


	5. Downstairs

Post Note: Comments, flames, I'll take 'em all. I'm not picky :)

Prompt: Downstairs.

Character(s): Al-Cid. Al-Cid's assistant.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Downstairs**

* * *

**  
**

_( "My leave, I take." )_

A task far less simple than was earlier reckoned, to be sure.

Particularly when injured. Particularly when injured and going down a flight of stone stairs; ridiculously tall stone stairs, which are slick with rain and -oh yes- with an arm slung over her shoulders, he is leaning heavily on his petite comrade _who will not even look at him_.

Via means his astounding ability to read the female psyche, this leads Al-Cid to the conclusion that his lovely little assistant is, in fact, still angry.

Go figure.

Unlike their Archadian brethren, whom have just proven their point in the most effectively appalling manner available (this is a _holy_ place), Rozzarian airships do not yet possess the capability to fly through the Jagd. And so, in order to make it to this secret mountain conference, other means of travel were required…i.e. chocobos and their own two feet.

Now, this fact alone did not daunt Al-Cid in the slightest. However, after a week astride an obstinate yellow bird, trekking across snow and ice …with the stress and necessity of discretion involved…with the mounting war effort, with the duties he had to abandon in order to pursue this little endeavor…with- with _everything_ looming over his head and with only a quiet _girl_ for company…oh, it had not been a pretty journey.

Tempers had flared, words and veiled threats were tossed about…it had not been a pretty journey at all.

Well fine. Just fine.

She wanted to be angry? Let her be angry.

She wanted to ignore him? He'd…he'd ignore her too!

No, wait! He'd do her one better! He would act like a professional. He _had_ acted like a professional. The professional that she so obviously was not!

For example: taking his sunglasses silently and then shoving that note under his nose so that they'd have no reason to address the other during their audience with the Grand Kiltias. What had that been about? Who did she think she was fooling?

Not Al-Cid. No, not Al-Cid. For you see_, _Al-Cid had remained a professional and acted as any professional might: he flirted shamelessly with the (supposedly dead) princess of Dalmasca and then blurted out the assassination of the (incredibly dead) Emperor Gramis while in the direct presence of the only Solidor son who maybe still cared enough to call the man Lord Father…and to mean it, at that!

…Yes, Al-Cid bemoaned, feeling the first prickles of what promised to be a very guilt-ridden inner monologue, professional indeed.

Well, what was he supposed to do? Yes, Larsa is a child. Yet, coddling him as one would do the boy no favors. Tactful or not, the death of Gramis was a detail that needed to be cleared up so that their plans could move forward. Dealing with the late emperor would have been one thing. Dealing with Vayne Solidor would prove –has already proven- to be quite another.

His assistant _still_ won't look at him. Slightly ragged breathing that is not his own reaches his ears and …alright, so she does need to look at the ground in order to avoid nefarious puddles and hidden patches of ice. No one needs a broken neck on top of everything else. But still.

Maybe he should dismiss her once back home in Rozzaria. Find someone _pleasant_ for a change.

True, the turnover rate among Al-Cid's personal staff was near nonexistent…recalling a recent disagreement with the girl currently in question he is having a bit of a hard time remembering as to exactly why that is …oh yes. Well, first off was the simple fact that it was such a _chore_ to look for new assistants. So very time consuming. And there was no denying the fact that she was competent. Competency went far with him.

…Not to mention the aesthetical aspect.

He chances a glance at her. Her dark hair is out of place and damp from the rain, long strands clinging to her neck and face. The knees of her trousers are torn and the skin beneath is equally scrapped. Her cheeks have taken on a rosy hue from the effort of dragging his heavy carcass about and her breath comes up short through softly parted lips. After the skirmish, she was the one who found him. The one who helped him to his feet.

You know, she really isn't that bad-

Abruptly, she disentangles herself from him. Crying out in dismay and bewildered by the sudden lack of support, Al-Cid staggers. They have reached the bottom. Regaining his footing he (limping-ly) closes the distance between them.

He is glaring daggers but she does not seem to notice.

Wet, injured, disheartened, sick of Archadians, sick of blood and death, sick of _being ignored_, Al-Cid catches her by the arm, gruffly grinding out,

" ' ay, _Girl_."

She stiffens at the impersonal address and her jaw sets resolutely, casting him a hooded glance.

Sliding his hand up to her shoulder he gives it a brief squeeze, "…Thank you."

A flush. A nod. Eye contact.

They are back to business as usual.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Downstairs: End.**

* * *

**  
**


	6. Chaos

Post Notes: Hey look! A chapter! :)

Prompt: Chaos.

Character(s): Main Party.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Chaos**

* * *

**  
**

Outside of the throne room, men (more than three but no more than seven) force him to his knees.

The captain shouts and kicks and thrashes. He does not let up until one of his assailants catches a fistful of golden hair and jerks his head upwards.

And just like that, Basch Fon Ronsenburg is staring at his double.

Basch is breathing harsh and fast from his prior struggles, his lips move of their own accord, unable to form coherent words.

* * *

She feels herself going pale, ears lowering themselves into her hair even as her posture straightens in alarm.

She can't _hear anything_.

The wind blows through the long grass, in the distance a bird screeches…. she knows _that, _that is not what horrifies her.

Somewhere behind her, the Green Word whispers.

And for her freedom, Fran will never be able to hear it again.

* * *

They took him away.

They killed him

Why "They" did this to _them_…well... the pair of children simply didn't know.

Vaan never wanted Reks to leave. Had begged him not to leave. But Penelo had seen it in the older boy's eyes, that same look Vaan often got, Reks was convinced and hell-bent that this was the path he would take.

And the stupid, _stupid_ boy died for it.

Died for them, Reks probably believed.

In her mind (she would never have the heart or the cruelty to repeat it aloud), Penelo voiced something decidedly uncharitable concerning Reks and his moral beliefs.

Guilt flooded her immediately. Reks had taken a stand, Reks had answered the call of his homeland in her time of need, and Reks…Reks had been quiet and shy, Reks had been booksmart and clever, Reks had never held a blade longer or deadlier than a blunt dagger _in his life_, and Reks had ended his seventeen years with the hilt of Captain Fon Ronsenburg's razor pointed sword pressing against his ribcage…and for what? So that his little brother could pickpockets and sleep in the gutters?

Before _her_ death, Penelo's mother had promised Penelo love. She had promised Penelo friends, and laugher, and adventure, and influence, and wonder, and princesses, and knights, and flowers, and Penelo's mother had promised her young daughter _miracles_.

So why weren't there any miracles?

* * *

Vossler has been dead for almost a week now.

Trekking though the flooded flats of Giza, death is a concept Ashe is no stranger to. Even so, it is also a concept she cannot quite grasp, cannot quite process the finality of it all. Ashe doesn't know how to process it.

Mud cakes her legs, halfway up her thighs. The constant pelting of the rain does nothing save making the entire party miserable and surly, soaking them to the bone. To her own chagrin, Ashe finds her sword arm cannot be trusted in this sort of weather; she shivers too much to hold the blade steady.

So it's natural, just when she is concluding that things could not possibly get any worse, that one of Penelo's wayward spells hits Ashe in the chest and sends the princess tumbling several yards to the left… and directly into one of the swampier looking marshes.

She hits the water rolling and is on her knees before even truly registering what has just happened; a move that would not have been possible were it not for the fact that the water is only about two feet deep and, while kneeling, it just reaches her waist. Following Penelo's concerned (and Vaan's amused) shouted inquiry, she waves a dismissive hand in their direction proving that she is, if not much else, alive and sentient.

A good ten paces from the bank, Ashe attempts to stand. This works for a moment…until the muddy bottom catches the heel of her left shoe and sends her sprawling and coughing up the putrid water.

And then Basch is there, gripping her upper arm. She is still on her knees, dimly noting that water swirling around his legs only reaches mid-calf…and that she is inexplicably angry with him.

Ashe attempts (unsuccessfully) to shake him off, snapping crossly, "I don't _need_ your help."

Only that's a lie….and if the dubious look he shoots her is any indication, they both know it.

Ashe reiterates, "I don't _want_ your help. I _hate_ you!" She brings the free (rather grubby) hand up to her face to furiously swipe at the damp hair that has fallen in front of her eyes.

And in that moment, she truly means it. Ashe hates him. She hates him for the feeling of comfort the sight of him used to install when she was only a girl growing up in the palace. She hates the familiarity of his face (consequently she hates that scar even more for marring said familiarity). She hates the impressive figure he cuts, his voice, and his Landian ancestry. She hates his laugh (unbidden and uncensored) and she hates that _stupid_ red vest. She hates his skill with a blade and his age. She hates the amiable attitude he adopts with Vaan and Penelo. She hates his guilt. She hates him for bearing Rasler's body back to her. She hates him for letting him die. She hates that he is here and Vossler is not. She hates that he is here and her _husband_ and her _father_ are not. And she hates him, and she hates him, and she hates him.

Her voice is a little too loud, a little too raw. She slaps the water's surface in frustration stating with as much conviction as she can muster, "You're supposed to be _**dead**_."

She looks into his eyes, expecting (wanting) hurt or remorse...instead he gives her only...well...it's pity there, isn't it? Pity for _her_.

Basch lets go of her arm. He turns away, allowing her to help _herself _out of mud and filth.

And, deep down, Ashe hates him for that too.

* * *

"There is no integrity in this."

The reply is distinctly apathetic, "…Is that so?"

Ffamran's tone situates itself on that line right between righteousness and vehemence, "Yes, that IS so."

The sixteen year old is sitting cross-legged atop of what is supposed to their supper table. In one hand he holds a dirtied rag, the other he is waving in the air for emphasis as he speaks. Scattered across the long table lie assorted pieces of very distinct, very impressive, very daunting pieces of armor.

At length the other occupant in the room, seated in a chair at the other end of the table, mummers, "The helm. Don't forget the helm. Blood'll never come off if it dries…seen Bergan's recently?" Cidolfus turns a page in the heavy tome he studies, "Disgraceful, the state of it."

Ffamran frowns down at the now spotless breastplate balanced between his knees before setting it aside and reaching for the helm.

Splatters of blood decorate the horned headpiece… recalling vividly the origin of those splatters, the young man fights the urge to vomit out of pure guilt and self-loathing. He grips the rag tighter to keep his hand from shaking, a pity the same cannot be done for his voice, "This is _not justice_."

Cidolfus pushes his spectacles higher up on his nose.

Sensing what well may be a better (though equally resented) conversationalist the young man mutters to the helm - _his_ helm, "This is madness."

* * *

Vaan was silent for four days and three nights after Rek's died. On what would have been the fourth night, he woke up screaming and wouldn't stop.

On the edge of consciousness he was aware of Penelo gripping his hand in hers.

The fingertip sized bruises on _both_ their hands take weeks to heal.

Vaan never did stop screaming. Sure, his mouth closed…but the screaming never did stop. Not forever. Not really.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Chaos: End.**

* * *

**  
**


	7. Sunshine

Post Notes: It is mentioned in her profile (on the square-enix site, I believe) that Penelo _did_ have two older brothers and they _were_ in the order so…I'm not making that up :)

Prompt: Sunshine.

Character(s): Main Party (Penelo-centric). Mentions of Larsa, Kytes, and Filo.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Sunshine.**

* * *

**  
**

Penelo smiles and Larsa has stars in his eyes.

From somewhere near the back Balthier chuckles.

Vaan, whom had been ambling alongside him, his arms tucked behind his head, looks suspicious, "What's so funny?"

"I'd keep an eye on my girl were I you, Vaan."

Vaan wrinkles his nose, "What're you-"

"It seems Penelo has gained an admirer."

He follows the pirate's line of sight and his face clears, "Oh." And then, "So what? Larsa's just a kid."

The older man cocks a brow, "For now."

(Balthier recalls the other three Solidor siblings, all of whom had grown into tall, broad shouldered and, if mad, they were still…well… _handsome_ men.)

A lengthy rolling of the eyes from Vaan, "Whatever."

* * *

Penelo smiles and for the first time in a long time Basch feels as though he has accomplished something.

He has long observed that the girl holds her sword in a defensive position that is strikingly similar to the old Knights of the Order. When Basch finally finds opportunity enough to inquire about this, she admits to two elder brothers. They had been in the Order and had taught her a little before their untimely deaths.

Basch is quiet for several moments. Her entire face lights up when, suddenly, he correctly states their names. "I remember them." He confesses. After all, he has had time enough to reflect on his life and acquaintances therein.

Penelo smiles and for the first time in a long time Basch feels as though he has accomplished something. Not because he was forced to. Not because it is his sworn duty. Simply a small act of kindness, a few words, the like of which have been repaid for with a smile from a young girl.

If only to keep her smiling a bit longer, he recounts the only solid memory he has of them. It involves Azelas, chocobo armor, pilfered provisions from the palace, three buckets of red paint, and, by the end of day, extra laps and shifts for the entire platoon. But she laughs and Basch feels some semblance of the camaraderie he has long missed.

* * *

Penelo smiles and Balthier pauses, almost thoughtfully. _She was going to be beautiful one day_. He takes a moment to grin, mostly to himself, before taking the offered handkerchief with a gallant, "I shall wear it close to my heart."

And though he would never admit it aloud, he delights in her flustered reaction… and Vaan's irritation.

* * *

Penelo smiles and Ashe only stares. At length, Ashe returns the gesture. It is small and gone faster than Penelo can follow – but it is still a smile. It makes Ashe, for one brief and shining moment, resemble the little girl she will never be again.

* * *

Penelo smiles excitedly as she speaks. Fran gives the tiniest shake of her head. To be so young and dauntless – maybe the girl has a bit of sky pirate in her yet.

* * *

Penelo is frowning and Vaan is still several paces ahead of her, surrounded by the children of Lowtown, unable and unwilling to take heed of this fact.

"Vaan! I'm talking to you!"

He turns his head to glance at her briefly… but Kytes is jabbering on about something and Filo is tugging on Vaan's vest – his attention shifts.

"Vaan!" This was _ridiculous_. He wouldn't even tell _her_ where they were going. This wasn't going to end well. These (mis)adventures never ended well. She folds her arms across her chest and continues to trail behind them.

"Hey, c'mon!" A few minutes later he has broken away from the pack and grabs her hand, drawing her up beside him amidst the group of children. Her hand still in his, he catches her gaze, "Geez, Penelo. Try to keep up, will ya?"

She is still frowning… but Vaan knows her well enough to see that Penelo's eyes are smiling.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Sunshine: End.**

* * *

**  
**


	8. Hold

Post Notes: Yes. She really doesn't care about what's going on under his shirt. No. I don't know what's wrong with her either. Stop asking.

:p

Prompt: Hold.

Character(s): Main Party. (Balthier. Fran. Penelo.)

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Hold**

* * *

**  
**

As far as Balthier is concerned the hunting of marks is entirely and wholly overrated.

Predictable and repetitive in nature, the payoff was generally of a great help, to be sure…yet was it really worth it all?

Was the gil really worth waiting a week for a cloudy day in the Tchita Uplands, or a months' worth of _public_ airship fare and travel…just for some creature to come out of hiding? Was it really worth the confusion and hassle required of killing off every single fiend in an area... just so the mark would grace them with its presence? Or, to better that point, was it really worth Vaan mistaking each and every one of said fiends _as_ the mark? Was it really worth tracking down not only the mark but the employer as well? Certainly these people must know that "monster hunter" is simply a pseudonym for "pirate", "bounty hunter", "cut-throat", "thief", and…well, _wanted men_ as a whole.

And what with their party being of virtually that same ilk, it was quite distressing how so very many of their employers wanted to meet in Nalbina. Nalbina! For pity's sake…did not the words "Imperial occupation" mean anything?

He digresses.

The fact remains that the hunting of marks is wholly overrated.

As is made obvious by their current situation. Their predictably uninteresting situation. Their predictably uninteresting situation which has more or less been handed to them from a man (a Nabudian man, mind you) who hired them to skip off and slay some dragon-like wyrm of (predicable) extravagant proportions that has (predictably) become something of a nuisance for those who would venture by way of the Mosphoran Highwaste.

Mission accomplished.

Or very nearly, from the way it is lilting, he doubts the creature is much longer for this world.

Ashe, Vaan, and Basch form a loose circle around the creature with swords in hand. As for Fran and himself, they act as the rear guards, making do on the top of a very small hill. Well out of the wyrm's vicinity and yet near enough for arrows and bullets to find their marks. Or _the _mark, as the case would have it. Penelo drifts in between the ranks, acting as mage. The girl has become surprisingly adept in a short amount of time; at present she is using the opportunity to practice her black magic, doling out the occasional cura at her comrades discretion.

Like he said. Overrated.

Oh, yes, yes. The flashing blood-darkened blades -- the crimson rivulets running down from gouges along wyrms' snout -- Vaan's relatively unscathed condition (and by unscathed, Balthier mostly meant _not yet dead_)… All these factors spoke volumes in regards to the party's overall battle prowess.

And, while unarguably impressive and brave, _did_ look decidedly comical from his slightly elevated vantage point.

"…Like children provoking a seeq with sticks."

Indeed, try though he might, the entire affair left Balthier feeling rather _bored_.

Or it did. Right up until that moment when Basch Fon _bloody _Ronsenburg decided to stab the creature in the eye.

An act that, in turn, causes the creature to rear up on its hind legs…and go hurtling past its immediate attackers a second later. In fact, tracing its predicated trajectory the beast is heading straight towards-

"An irate beast. A susceptible virgin. Best hurry." Fran lets another arrow fly, "I do believe that is your cue."

Swearing, Balthier drops the gun.

* * *

Penelo would never be able to profess that she has ever had any _real_ interest about what went on underneath Baltheir's shirt.

However, at present it would seem she has very little say in that matter.

She can feel his heartbeat through his chest, through his shirt, through his vest, pounding against her back. **That** is how tightly they are meshed together. And what with the swell of his bicep tucked firmly against the underside of her breasts and his fingers curling around her ribcage in a near bruising force… she really _can't help_ but notice that, by way of muscles, the man is really very well defined. A fact that, on some level she had to have known…it only made sense, after all. But with him being so fully covered all the time, his shear firmness still came as something as a shock.

A shock that may have meant much more to her poor little teenage psyche had the air not been crushed out of her lungs a millisecond beforehand.

Oh. And the rampaging mark. There was that too.

The ground vibrates beneath their feet, whilst the wyrm, blind and wholly mad in amidst its death throws, thunders past them. So closely it does so that had the inclination struck Penelo, she could have leaned forward the slightest bit and the scales on the wyrm's flank would have sanded her nose clean off her face (as it is, she keeps very, VERY still).

One, two, three arrows fired in quick succession cause the beast to collapse on its gigantic side, some twenty feet away.

For a good five seconds they both simply stare at the monster. Then Baltheir is tilting his head down to hiss fiercely against her ear, "Don't. Get. _Careless._"

Vaan is gawking in their direction, somewhat bug-eyed…an expression that, at any other time, Penelo would have found hilarious. As it is, all she can do is nod dumbly and vigorously.

"Yeah. Okay. Sure."

When he releases her a moment later, he does so muttering a word he _really _ought not say in front of young ladies…but that she knows anyway.

(Penelo never was all that fond of hunting marks.)

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Hold: End.**

* * *

**  
**


	9. Confessions

Post Note: Not joking about the posture thing (third section) equip Balthier with a two-handed sword and you'll see what I mean. Looks freaking weird.

Prompt: Confessions

Character(s): Main Party

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Confessions.**

* * *

**  
**

"The truth? We are fighting tooth and nail across a godless savannah and you request honesty?"

The crossbow is heavy in her arms as Ashe scans the dunes for wolves, "It is a request not so difficult as you would make it."

"My. You are precious, aren't you? Where _is _your chaperone? I'm certain Basch-"

"Baltheir," she cuts him off, "Why did you take the wedding band?"

This seems to genuinely puzzle him, "Why payment, of course."

"Only it is more than that, isn't it?"

He folds his arms across his chest and regards her silently. At length he ventures in a tone that is more accusation than inquiry, "If it is? What of it?"

"I ask only the truth. I ask only what you think."

There is sand in her hair and dirt on her face. Her lips are chapped. Her hands are bleeding from where the crossbow bolts have nicked her. The sword suits her so much more but with Fran utilizing the javelin, the party has found itself in need of a second ranged weapon in addition to his gun.

Oh, yes. It had been fun at first. Watching the way the sweat made her shirt stick to her skin. Watching Basch grind his teeth every time Balthier insinuated anything _vaguely _inappropriate about the vast amounts of _alone time_ he'd be spending with the princess…

Two hours into the new formation and he began wishing that anyone – even Vaan – had agreed to take up the bow. Perhaps he could convince Fran to resume her previous position. Because, alright, _yes_. Yes, the battles are over much quicker when Fran is down in the quick of things dealing melee attacks…but were the avoided scratches, the saved potions, really worth Balthier's slow death by the harpings of one Ashelia B'Nargin?

_He didn't think so._

The bitterness rises, "What _I _think? Alright, Princess, _I _think that-"

_(I think that you have no real proof of your identity. I think I am not above stealing said proof should we somehow manage to live long enough to acquire it. Even if the people accept you as Heir Apparent, Vayne Solidor will still overpower your pitiful city-state. I think your husband ought to have swallowed his pride, pulled his soldiers, and marked Nabradia as lost whilst there was still chance -and men- enough to secure Dalmasca's borders. I think you are exploiting Basch by playing on his guilt and his overdeveloped sense of morality in order to get him to do what you want…I'd have told you long ago to go and collect your own firewood. I think…I think I am not in the mood to have this conversation at present.)_

"-you smell bad." He finishes petulantly.

"I…I beg your pardon?"

Unfolding his arms, Balthier throws his hands up in the air, "There. I said it. Dreadful business, I know, but you _did _ask."

She recovers quickly and prompts, undaunted, "Balthier."

Entirely over the situation, he brushes past her, explaining quietly, "You cannot breathe life into a kingdom whilst shouldering a dead man."

* * *

In Lowtown, Vaan is staring at Penelo much harder than he probably should be.

From where he is perched atop an empty crate (according to the label it once contained assorted dried fruits), he can see her moving down the corridor. Give her a moment or two and she'll be passing him by.

This last night, Vaan has had an epiphany. Vaan has had a vision. Vaan has had a single moment of clarity.

And now he needs to tell her. He has to tell her. It's important.

Close enough now, he hops off his crate and rushes forward, managing to catch her by the arm, "Hey, Penelo!"

She gives a slight start and a jerk before recognizing the voice. She smiles a greeting.

He rubs the back of his neck, voice only a bit too high, as he unnecessarily adds, "Just me."

She tilts her head to the side, peering up at him, "Just you," and then, "Something wrong?"

And he's glancing somewhere over her shoulder, decidedly _not _looking at her. A drastic change from a few seconds ago, but he can't seem to help it…besides, throwing up on her probably wouldn't go over all that well, "No, no. Everything's fine."

"Okay, well… I'm off to Migelo's. I'll see you later okay?"

"Later. Yeah. That works."

She makes it a whole five steps before he's running up behind her, "Penelo!"

"What, Vaan?"

He _has _to say it. He _needs_ to say it now or he never will. He knows it.

Face burning, Vaan waves a dismissive hand, "Nevermind."

She gives him a _look _before turning away.

Two steps this time, "No, wait! Don't go!"

"I'm going to be late!"

"I just gotta tell you something! It'll only take a second."

She sighs and shifts, eyeing the corridor.

"…uh."

"Well? What is it?"

Have her eyes _always_ been that expressive? "…um."

"Vaan-"

"I mean…"

"Vaan!"

"I love you!"

There. He said it. He said it and now he's grinning (a bit stupidly) waiting for her to fall into his arms like he _knows_ she will.

She places a hand on her hip and raises her eyebrows, "Yeah. Thanks. I love you too, Vaan."

And she reaches out to smooth his hair down in an _entirely _sisterly manner.

Vaan waits until she is well out of earshot before shouting in frustration.

* * *

_("…Shall I swear by your sword or some such?")_

The sincere exasperation in the pirate's tone had far outweighed the light mockery causing Basch to issue out a few hasty words of apology.

_("I'm only here to see how the story unfolds. Any self-respecting leading man would do the same.")_

And as they leave Jahara, Basch trails behind the rest of the group, collecting his thoughts. In his heart, he does not believe Baltheir would betray them. Yet, as a knight and as sole protector of the only living heir to the Dalmascan throne, it would not do to _completely _place his trust in a pirate.

Yet…yet Basch has his suspicions.

By all appearances a naturally svelte man, it takes a trained eye to notice Balthier's muscle mass is distributed in an even manner that could only be acquired through the donning of heavy, full-bodied armor…often for long periods of time.

There had also been a recent incident in which, during a scuffle with fiends, the princess had dropped her sword. Too far away to be of any real assistance, it had been Balthier who picked up the fallen sword and skewered the beast. And while it had not surprised Basch that the younger man knew how to wield a blade, the way he held the sword -his posture - _had._ The way Balthier had held the sword with his elbows facing outwards, the hilt raised nearly at eye-level…the way someone used to looking out of a visor or a helm would hold a sword.

There were smaller, more obvious details, as well. The remnants of an upper Tsenbole accent, the Imperial engine in the _Strahl… _even his skill with a firearm is a firm mark of the Archadian army.

Yes, Basch has his suspicions.

His suspicions do not explain the Viera woman at all.

Why would a Viera – a folk notorious for their distaste of other races – agree to partner with a hume man? An Archadian hume man. The Archadians whom were equally notorious for their beliefs that humes are _The_ superior race? It made no sense at all.

And, only possessing enough patience for _so many_ suspicions Basch does what he deems no one else in the party has the good sense to do.

He asks her.

Simply, plainly, he asks her, "Why do you follow him?"

Incredibly striking in her appearance, an almost violent kind of beauty, Basch is somewhat surprised (and in no small part relieved) when he finds that he is not so flustered as he feared he may be.

She smiles one of her almost smiles. Extremely tall and statuesque, even if it were not for the outlandishly tall heels she wore, the woman would still reach eye level with him.

"Leading man or no, the act is an interesting one, Captain."

(Ahead, a serpent of impressive proportions makes a sudden strike for Vaan's face. His shriek is abruptly cut off by a resonating gunshot.)

"...though often I find his choice in understudies questionable."

It is not an answer. Not a true answer.

Yet, for now, Basch can content himself with such.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Confessions: End.**

* * *

**  
**


	10. Face

Post Notes: Hey look! An update! :) Also, I have no idea what happened to the Lady Solidor. What you will find below is complete speculation on my part.

Prompt: Face.

Character(s): Vayne. Larsa.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Face.**

**

* * *

  
**

There will come a day when Vayne Carudas Solidor shall reap all that he has sown.

It is the Writ course of Man.

And of this simple truth, he is well aware. For be they the seeds of discord or seeds of influence, Vayne will – Vayne must - account for any and all fruit they should bear. Be they Emperor or Kin Slayer. Dynast-King or Occurian plaything. Vayne Solidor understands that they are his and his alone.

"She leapt." The whispering evening breeze is cool on his skin, a welcome break amid the customary Archadian humidity.

Fairy lights and magicked crystals illuminate the open-air drawing room in which the sole surviving heirs of House Solidor currently reside. Larsa, seated on a cushioned chair near the arched entryway, a tome open in his hands and Vayne, much closer to the edge, by all appearances taking in the sweeping city view.

Lulled by their previous state of silence, Larsa can only offer a reflexive, "Beg pardon?"

Events subsequent to his retrieval from the holy mountain Bur-Omisace and the united deaths of Judge Drace and their father, has left Larsa distinctly hesitant towards the prospect of solitude. Instead the boy has been, in his own tactful fashion, seeking out company. Most notably by way of Judge Gabranth and Vayne.

…Vayne, in spite of the very fact that he may well be the one whom has rendered himself and Larsa orphan. Of course, this has never been explicitly stated. Not by either party.

"What Father told the People. What Father told you as you grew from infancy. It is _a lie_. There was nothing at all faulty about the railing. She. Leapt." The man does not turn to face the boy, eyes scanning the horizon line for something only he can see, only something he knows, continuing, "Out of despair. Possibly contempt, though I find that rather doubtful. Had she been able to properly peg the emotion as it was, she would, in all likelihood, be among us at present. Yet, she is not. And that is because, Larsa, she could not come to terms. She could not make up _her mind_."

"Brother?" A rustling of pages, the sound of book being shut.

The man simply clasps his hands behind his back, "How could she, by any means, continue to love the one who slew two of her beloved sons? Comparatively, as the perpetrator was of her own blood and body, how could she yet afford to hate him?"

"…The tragedies of which you speak…those were accidents. I have read the reports issued by yourself and by the soldiers accompanying you." Though spoken as a statement, Vayne can hear the hesitance – and the question – in Larsa's words.

"Accidents…accidents most fell, indeed. Tell me, Larsa, how closely do you believe accidents correlate with necessity? And how often does necessity breed accidents?"

Though Larsa shall never profess to understand his brother, he knows enough of his brother to recognize when he is being teased, "Vayne."

A momentary duck of the elder's dark head, "My apologies." and Larsa can almost feel the small smile accompanying the words. Then he watches as the muscles of Vayne's back tighten and stiffen beneath his many layers, though his tone remains ever conversational,

"...She struck me, you know, in the confusion and aftermath to follow. I felt it. Mark my words, when she struck me across the face, I _felt_ it. For all my battles waged and all those yet to be fought, I do not believe any blow has or ever shall pierce me as deeply as that one did then. And her cries as the guard wretched her away from me…she loathed me. In that instant she loathed me with every fiber of her being, every fragment of her soul.

"Only…" he muses, "only she loved me too. Our mother loved me, Larsa. She hated me and she _loved_ me until the very end and _that_ is why she leapt."

There is a beat of silence before Larsa's voice carries over to where his brother stands, "I do not believe you. What you say about her end. I do not believe you."

And now Vayne does turn to face his last remaining blood.

Larsa sits with spine ramrod straight. His chin held high and gaze resolute as identical sets of eyes meet and lock across the distance separating them. It cannot be said, not even by Larsa years later, what it is Vayne searches for in that instant between heartbeats. Nor can it be said what it is he finds.

All Larsa will ever know is that his findings, whatever they may be, cause the elder to quietly chuckle and turn away once more, "Very well. Believe what you will, child."

Vayne turns away and it is, at the end of things, Larsa's undoing. For it brings Larsa to his feet, all Solidor temper, all fire – no more the tamed docile pup than Fenrir is – Ferrinas – the sacred beast for which he is named. Grief wrought and frustrated and still too young to _understand_ _– _still young enough to believe that his brother may yet be -

"Why!" He demands, gloved hands forming fists at his side, "Why are you telling me this? What causes you to say such things?"

Vayne whirls and for one wild second Larsa regrets his anger. In three strides the distance between them is as nothing, and Vayne is folding his long frame in upon itself until they are eye level. "We alone do House Solidor _make_." His voice is tight and his grip on Larsa's shoulders is tighter still, "I swore an oath, long ago, to protect you. From every threat and from everyone. Of these hazards, never have I failed to include myself among the figures. The sooner you understand the better, child – Larsa – one cannot be of two minds and yet still thrive. We shall always reap that which we sow, for this is the Writ course of Man."

With Vayne's face, so like his own, only inches away, Larsa will later recall this to be the exact second in which two irrevocable revelations are made.

The first being that Vayne harbors within himself an honest affection for his younger sibling. For all the man is and for all he is not, as well as he possibly can, Vayne loves him.

The other will remain to be the moment in which the theory Larsa has never wanted to admit – the one naming Vayne beyond saving – becomes terrifyingly real.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Face: End.**

**

* * *

  
**


	11. Habitual

Post Note: For difficile. who asked for this pairing. It's pretty subtle and incredibly, insipidly tame. I'm not brave enough to write anything blatant with these two _just yet_ so… sorry difficile. :p

Did my best to keep everyone in character. Ultimate results are still pending, though, so lemme know what you all think.

Prompt: Habitual.

Character(s): Main Party. (Vaan. Balthier.)

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Habitual.**

* * *

The Westersand has never been kind to Vaan. With a plethora of childhood memories of wandering too far into the desert (despite his parents – and later Reks' – numerous warnings) and the not-so-distant recollections of miserable sand-storming mark hunts under his belt, Vaan feels quite confident in this fact. Penelo swears to him that the storms do cease, that there are times when the area is quite calm. Needless to say, he does not believe her.

The Westersand hates him. Always has, always will. Always will Vaan emerge from the desert maze wind-tossed, sweat-soaked, and dirt-streaked. Always will Vaan emerge convinced he had been going to _die_ in there, blinded by sand and spitting up dust. Always, always, always, because the Westersand hates Vaan and Vaan hates it right back.

….Almost as much as he hates the Zertinan Caverns. Almost as much as the Zertinan Caverns hate him.

How do wyrms that size even find an entrance large enough for their bulk to pass through, anyway? Vaan almost opens his mouth to ask Balthier this very question before quickly thinking better of it. Ahead, he can hear the princess shouting dares to the monsters who dare to get too close. The veira woman and Ashe are somewhere ahead of them, in the not too far off distance. Penelo and Basch to their rear, several twisting passages past.

Their partners were not consciously chosen. They are not the obvious or, really, even the preferred choice. Rather the pairings are the byproducts of several combined factors… those factors being a herd of mist-like, mutated horse phantoms, giant scaled dragons, and _oh, sweet Galtea, just make for the exit! Quickly now!_ and the general chaos that tended to follow orders of that like.

Their partners were not consciously chosen and yet, with nearly five months spent together, it is not a _new_ order of things. It is a rhythm, altogether different from the norm and yet an _old_ rhythm all the same. They have been together for two weeks and five months. The party, the insurgence, …the six hell-bent, death wishing, reckless thinking, unjustly wronged, royal-blooded, sky stealing, foolish souls – they have been together for exactly two weeks and five months.

It will not last to six. They know this with innate certainty. Already they run on borrowed time.

With only a rough jerk of Vaan's shoulder to inform the street urchin what he's about, Balthier all but throws himself into the barely visible alcove on their left; without care or conceit, the self professed leading man lands ungracefully on his rear. Only there's no real time to focus on that because the pirate is already using both hands to peel and tug away the torn leather surrounding the newly acquired, freely bleeding, laceration on his right thigh. And there is no real time to mock him for it either, as Vaan is already busy searching _both_ their pockets, fumbling for a potion.

The Dalmascan resistance (the one Ashe never asked for) is growing by the hour. With citizens eager to take back their homeland, with the only too willing aid of the Rozzarians; with a contagious crackling energy in the air, free flying Bujerba renounced their pacifist colours not three days past, choosing instead to mirror their wayward Marquis and take up arms against the Archadians. The End is near and it figures, it really does figure, that the close is to happen at the very moment Vaan has decided things make sense. That Vaan feels comfortable.

The boy never was one fond of change. So he focuses on the familiar.

His nails are torn and cannot properly grip the stopper so Vaan ends up striking the neck of the potion bottle against the rock wall instead. Instantly the smell permeates the stale cave air; fairly buzzing with the promise of liquidized magic, the pearly blue concoction is, all at once, cloyingly menthol sweet and stinging vinegar acidic. And when applied (jerkily at best, the boy is still running on adrenaline and his fingertips feel shaky blunt and clumsy) it burns.

It _burns _white-hot, like the sun they have both resided under for oh so very long - it _burns_ so when Balthier, panting out a pained hiss, reaches out both arms and pulls Vaan's face forward so that they might share a breath… it does not seem out of place. Resting forehead to forehead, Vaan is half crouched over him, one hand gripping the spot just above Balthier's knee, supporting the majority of the boy's weight. The other arm hangs useless at his side, knuckles brushing the dirt floor, bottle still trapped between his fingers.

Balthier's skin, in spite of the lace cuffs, is rough against his jaw and neck.

Then it passes and it is over and the hands are gone, inspecting and probing at the newly knit pink flesh, instead. Standing, Vaan offers him a hand – a hand which, unlike the pirate's, _is _scratched and cut up because, before this adventure began, Vaan's palms _were_ child thief soft – which the older man accepts readily enough.

And when, instead of releasing him, Balthier hooks an elbow around Vaan's neck and presses chapped lips against the boy's temple to roughly mummer, "Good man." Well, that doesn't seem out of place either.

(It doesn't seem out of place except that now his heart is in his throat, he can _feel _it there, the pounding beating lump of it, asphyxiating him with sticky thick syrup blood.)

The sinew sing of a bow is thrown back at them oddly, the echo bouncing off the walls in a way that seems not at all logical, followed quickly by a feminine battle cry. In a second, Balthier is gone on drunken sailor legs, shouting for Fran.

Vaan follows and focuses on the familiar. The Westersand and the Cavern hate. Old hates. Falls back into the old rhythm. Falling and getting up and trusting bullets to find the marks his sword arm cannot reach. The End is near and everything is changing. And never fond of change, with his heart still in his throat, the rhythm and hate is a safer thing to focus on than the fact that he is trembling like a colt: all gossamer wing fragile and graceless limbs and brand _fucking_ new.

* * *

**Noisome Incendiaries: Habitual: End. **


End file.
